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96 pages $12
Richard Martin keeps an irascible sense of distance from
everything that doesnít move. The poems are as far from the deadly serious
experimental academic avant-garde as they are from conventional mainstream
emotive/confessional modes. Somebody is bound to think Richard Martin is not
serious. It isnít that these poems arenít alive, on the page . . . if you
look closely enough you can see their little eyebrows move.
Words have volume.
Someone lit a match
And half of your vocabulary
Landed in the back yard.
ó "Gas Meter"
I walk in fear of saying something naÔve about these
weird poems because they sound naÔve, cartoonish:
the can of headache in the
of the head opens
He talks about cerebral things as if they were the
subject of everyday debate. Richard Martin should have a guest-voice shot on
The Simpsons. Then I would watch it.
Consider the world
We make with our brains
The soul is no treadmill
It careens inside of the body
Like a rubber hat
This will hurt you
ó "Mushroom of Sensation."
What are Richard Martinís poems when you see them for the
Itís no accident our brains are made of mud
Weíre fortunate to have words
Twist them into wings
Awkward animals fly